


Pancakes

by DealingDearie



Category: Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare, Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:33:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DealingDearie/pseuds/DealingDearie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jem decides to express his gratitude to the shadowhunters of the New York Institute by making pancakes for breakfast. Set after COHF, where everyone is finally happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pancakes

James Carstairs wakes as Brother Zachariah, looking out at a hazy world with silent thoughts, completely prepared to aimlessly roam the halls of the Silent City, awaiting to be called upon, hoping with a desperate kind of longing that it is the Herondale boy who needs him, that old memories can give him back some of the humanity he's sure to have lost. But then he blinks, waves of memories rushing to his mind as the world of fog clarifies into a crystal clear image of Tessa, lying peacefully beside him, her eyes closed in slumber, the chocolate curls of her hair spread about her head in a dark halo, cheeks flushed with warm blood.

Jem remembers himself and smiles, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light of their bedroom, and he carefully crawls out of bed, finding his clothes where they were strewn across the floor the night before, and his face softens at the memory, the ghost of warm lips on his. The dark runes on his chest and arm seem to glow, like fresh ink upon paper, still fresh from the wedding a few days earlier, and his ring feels both new and familiar as it rests on his finger. He settles into his startlingly modern clothes; dark jeans that Tessa insists are the fashion of the decade and a white cotton shirt with a low dipping collar that hugs his every movement like an old friend. Jem turns at the doorway, his heart pounding at the sight of his wife resting against the white pillows, a lazy smile gracing her delicate features as she dreams, the sheets tangled around her slender body.

He's pleasantly surprised to feel so healthy, so new, to feel the strength in his arms and the power in his legs, the long dormant energy he never had the chance to get used to, and the thought makes him smile with relief. It's all so odd, to feel his heart thundering against his ribs because of a simple emotion, and not the drug that had for so long sustained and drained him. He can barely stand the revelation, thinking it some cruel dream, both immensely pleased at the situation and horribly terrified that it's just another trick his withering mind has played on him yet again, that he'll wake to the fresh scent of blood on the sheets, coughing until his breaths barely come at all, weak body trembling with the effort of staying alive.

He runs a slender hand (thin fingers fitted perfectly to a violin) through his dark hair (ebony streaked with silver), his cheeks flushed, and quietly closes the door behind him, careful not to wake the angel that holds his heart within her hands.

...

The trek downstairs is filled with sudden stops as Jem finds himself glancing at every painting, picture, and memento hanging on the wall, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets as he tries his best to avoid the memories, the moments in time that cut him like a knife, jagged edges catching on torn pieces of flesh and making it all the more agonizing.

He blinks away the thought, young laughter haunting his thoughts as a woman curls up with a book, smiling up at him as her clockwork angel ticks in the silence, an ever present reminder of what he'll all too soon lose, and the thick sound of his parabatai's voice, laden with secrets he refuses to tell. Jem shakes his head to clear them away as he tries to remember where the kitchen is.

...

The kitchen of the New York Institute, though unfamiliar in its own right, seems shockingly different from the kitchen he's known all his life; small, electric boxes resting on the counters and sleek new technology hugging every wall. Jem frowns, his eyes falling upon the white cube before him, with its numerous dials and knobs, four odd, spiraling discs resting atop the surface, a small door in the front with a large handle sticking out in the open.

He walks over and examines it, twisting dials and pulling handles with interest, and cards a hand through his hair, a habit of Will's that he seems to be quickly picking up with each passing day in this new, unfamiliar world. He misses the wood stove and the smell of freshly baked bread, the clink of silverware at the dinner table as Charlotte looks to him, smiling through her hasty bites of food, a hand resting on her growing belly, and he even misses the warbling of old Brigid, horribly morbid and ill timed, but a welcome memory nonetheless, a warm light of fresh sorrow as he's reminded of all the he can never get back, a lifetime of memories forever closed off to him, the faces of friends and family all fading into the distant images they've come to be.

Jem sighs loudly in the thick silence of the kitchen and sets to work, remembering from the day before the tour the young shadowhunters gave him as he pulls bowls and plates from the various cabinets. He recalls what Tessa had called a 'computer' and how she had showed him to use it, how he had stumbled upon a recipe for pancakes. He smiles at the memory as he puts a skillet on the top of the stove and twists the dial.

Jem thinks over all the possible things he could write on the paper he pulled from the bedroom, now resting snuggly within his pockets, as he reaches into the refrigerator for the Bisquick, appetizing pancakes decorating the front cover of the box. He smiles down at it, eyes alight with contentment.

...

He desperately hopes he didn't wake anyone, what with all the noise, and the smell alone could pull even Magnus from his nightly coma. Jem gently sets the plates, all toppling with fluffy golden pancakes, down on the kitchen table, careful not to make any loud noises, and sits down at the nearest chair, taking a pen and piece of paper from his pocket.

...

Magnus rolls over gracelessly, his narrow cat eyes blinking sleepily as he groggily sits up, rubbing his eyes of the haze they seem to favor in the morning, and yawns as he looks to his right, to where Alec is slowly waking up beside him, his shadowhunter gear rumpled from where he'd abruptly fallen asleep on Magnus' bed the night before, too tired to walk to his own room.

Alec lifts his head and gives his boyfriend a lazy smile before rolling over quickly, nostrils flaring, and Magnus catches the smell as soon as Alec does, looking to his left to see a plate of pancakes on his nightstand, a glass of fresh milk beside it. Alec sees the same thing, curiously tilting his head to pick up the small note folded beneath the plate, edges evenly aligned with one another as if folded by a careful hand.

Magnus does the same and instantly recognizes the old fashioned hand scrawled across the card.

_Magnus,_

_I do hope you enjoy your pancakes. For all that you've done for me and my family, for helping Will in his despair, and for aiding Tessa in her heartbreak, I figured that breakfast is the least I could do for an old friend. Thank you, Magnus._

_-Jem_

A smile tugs on Magnus' lips as he turns to Alec, who's rereading his card, eyes skipping from place to place.

_Alec,_

_I used to know a good man, a kind person who bore the name Lightwood with shame, as if his heritage would destroy him, and I knew his brother, a boy who couldn't admit to himself how wrong he'd been about the one thing that mattered, and it tore them both up inside. That is, until they found where they belonged, until they realized that they could change how the world thought of that name, and change it they did. They changed it not only for themselves, but for you as well, Alexander. I was so very glad to see that you've carried on that legacy. They would be proud, as would a few certain Herondales._

_-Jem_

Alec looks to Magnus, blue eyes sparkling with puzzlement, and smiles.

...

Isabelle climbs out of bed, pajama pants tangled around her ankles, and reaches out for her hairbrush, but instead finds a small note sticking out from beneath a plate of food. She furrows her eyebrows as she reads it.

_Isabelle,_

_When I first saw you, I thought for a startling moment that I was back in the London Institute, that everything was all well and good and like it should be, but when I heard your voice, I knew otherwise. You may not realize how special you are, to have that ruby necklace wrapped around your neck, or to bear those bright blue eyes, or even to have that immense sense of fight within you, but I know. I once knew a very special woman, one who stubbornly defied the rules set for her, and one who wore that necklace nearly her whole life, one bearing bright blue eyes and a curtain of dark hair. She was like you in almost every sense, and I'm glad to see her memory living on within her descendants, even if it is an unknown one._

_-Jem_

_..._

Jace jumps at the sound of his alarm clock, a knife at the ready, and finally manages to relax his tense muscles at the realization that he's alone. Well, almost alone. The food stares at him and he blinks in dim surprise.

_Jace,_

_I protected you for a very long while, stood up for you and helped you whenever I was able, because I couldn't bear the thought of any Herondale in trouble. Perhaps it was because I made an oath to myself to protect the bloodline, or perhaps it was pure selfishness, I'm not entirely sure. I'm aware that you don't know me very well, none of you do, but I desperately hope that will change. I used to be very close to a Herondale boy, a best friend and brother in all but blood, with a bond so immense it could transcend time, and you're like him, in a way. He was headstrong and stubborn, kind and selfless, and you only truly knew him if he let you in himself. I know that he would be proud of you, no matter the mistakes you've made or will make, and that's all that I need to know to want to be your friend, as well._

_-Jem_

_..._

Simon's eyes fly open at a startling noise and he swears he hears footsteps. He stretches out like a cat, only to find Church hissing at him from the foot of his bed before jumping off, his soft paws scraping the floor as he darts for the door, as if following something. Simons sees the pancakes and squints at the door. Or someone.

_Simon,_

_Immortality, from personal experience, is a very heavy burden, and one you'll have to bear with strong shoulders. Magnus will be there, naturally, and Tessa, too. They'll be your familiars in a world full of strangers, and you'll cling to them for dear life. But everyone does die, even every warlock and every vampire, and so you'll find yourself alone, as I was for so very long. It will get easier, as your heart numbs, and one day you'll look back and find that centuries have gone by in a blink. But before then, I ask of you a favor. Watch over Tessa. She's strong and stubborn and wise, all too sure that she can handle herself, and I know she can, but everyone has their moments of weakness, and when I die, hers will come. She will, in all meanings, be alone, and no one will be there by her side. Come to know her as a friend. Take care of my wife when I'm gone from her side._

_-Jem_

_..._

Luke and Jocelyn wake in each other's arms, the sheets tangled around their legs, and Jocelyn's mess of fiery hair is spread about her like a halo, gently resting on the fluffy pillows. Luke turns against her, opening his eyes to look past her shoulder at the mysterious pile of pancakes. His eyebrows nearly reach his hairline as Jocelyn squints up at him curiously.

_Luke and Jocelyn,_

_I was so glad to come into the Institute, only to find a whole family of descendants from my past. I'd like to thank you all for welcoming me and treating Tessa and I as your own. I can only hope that the future, wherever it may take us, will allow my life to be entwined with the shadowhunters of the New York Institute, and I'll try to aid you all in any way I can, starting with making breakfast._

_-Jem_

_..._

Clary nearly falls out of bed when her alarm clock rings, legs tangled in the sheets as she precariously teeters off the bed's edge, barely missing the tray of breakfast on her nightstand as she reaches out for something to grab, anything to keep her from falling. She stops herself just in time, murky green eyes as wide as saucers, and she swallows thickly, wide awake as her heart pounds against her rib cage.

_Clary,_

_You all must think me very odd, to stare at you the way I do, or to hesitate when you ask me a question, and I'm alright with that. I stare because I miss those I once loved with all my heart, those few people who I called family, and the lot of you could be their twins sometimes. I hesitate because I have to catch myself, have to realize where I am, or perhaps who I am, and why I'm here in the first place. It's hard to adjust in this new world, but you've made it easier, with your laidback way of seeing the world, and it lessens the stress I seem to be accumulating these days. I wholeheartedly thank you for all that you've done and hope to someday repay you for your immense kindness._

_-Jem_

_..._

Tessa reaches out, blindly grasping for a warm arm that once shivered with weakness, but touches only air. Her sleepy gray eyes blink open, revealing a space in her bed. She frowns and scoots onto Jem's pillow, smelling his sweet scent, and is reminded of the sickly sweet smell he once carried, the nauseating sugary taint that followed him, lying heavy in the air.

She smiles as she thinks of her new husband, both versions that she's loved all these years, and is caught off guard by the smell of pancakes wafting through the air. She rolls over lazily and her bright eyes fall upon a plate of breakfast, a full glass of milk at its side, and tilts her head as she sees the small note carefully tucked by its side, achingly familiar writing scrawled across the front, her name created by exaggerated swirls and long dips.

She smiles as she picks it up, fingering the sharp edges of the card with care.

_My beloved Tessa,_

_In all the years I spent in the Silent City, I thought of you every night, too afraid to reveal my thoughts to the others in the day for fear of being chastised. But at night, the moonlight soothed my grief in a way nothing could as my memories took hold, and I gained that much more humanity at the mere thought of you. In every sense, my Tessa, you have always been my savior, whether it has been from the yin fen or from the insanity of my solitary mind, you have kept me alive all these years, and I'll never be able to fully express my gratitude for that. So, I'll start small, offering everything I have in the hopes that it will be enough, even though it could never be sufficient, and I'll pray that, in time, we'll grow and explore and have wonderful days ahead, together for as long as I can stay with you. But by marrying me, you've chosen to bind yourself to a life that will, someday, expire, and I won't be there for you when it does. I wish with everything I have that I could spend forever by your side, but that is not the way, and I'll leave you all too soon. Promise me, then, that you'll find love in someone else when I'm gone, that when I wither and fade away, ashes in the City of Bones, you'll move on and love again. This, your happiness, is all I have ever wanted. Until then, may we have a blessed and long life together, beautiful Tessa, and I'll meet Will at the end of my road and we'll wait at the river he so often spoke of, feeding ducks mallard pies as they make their way past us, and we will both be waiting for you when your time finally comes, all too ready to be how we were always meant to be. Will, Tessa, and Jem; forever._

_-Forever and faithfully yours, Jem_

**Author's Note:**

> Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)  
> All rights go to their respective owners.


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